Voleur de Mon Coeur
by SilentMorning'sVoice
Summary: After 10 years of imprisonement The Artful Dodger returns into the flow of society. Darkness, Pain, and an unwanted romance await him on the road ahead. Can the soul behind the eyes of a saddened beauty soften a hardened heart?
1. Of The Dark and Dank

**Voleur de Mon Coeur**

Chapter I

Of The Dark and Dank

_Hammer, nor Keeper, nor Pagan am I_

_Not Guard, or Noble, or Merchant at all_

_In world of metal and of stone, I live_

_To live, I'm forc'd to steal, and live I must _

_I live in a time when metal is God_

_And gold holds more worth than our human souls_

_Their gold I take, their souls are left behind_

_So blest they are, for them I do not kill _

_I thrive on the wealth of the Builder's house_

_Merchants and Nobles loose, to me, their shares_

_I oft' feel the thrill of my sinful deeds_

_But find release from this life, I do try _

_The gold to the damn'd Landlord, it is lost_

_Profit to meat, water, and bread is turn'd_

_To cease, I wish I could find the repose_

_But night after night, to the streets I go _

_A good thief am I, and thieve well I will_

_The Sons of Shade, Daughters of Dark, are we_

_This night, Oh Luck be mine, I leave again_

_To this trade I am bound forever more _

_The Dark Man_

_By - Lady Xila_

In a musky, cold, dark and dank cell, fifty levels beneath the bustling harbor at the southern tip of Ireland, were thousands of criminals. All were imprisoned for thievery, murder, rape, treason, and various other such crimes.

The concrete walls and straw-littered floor stank of mold, rot, and waste, both rat and human. The air itself appeared heavy and contaminated; dust was within every particle.

Screams rang through the temporary silence, due to both madness and torture. Shouts of anger and revolution rose from the bellows and echoed across the vast spaces of the prison.

Men, woman, and children were huddled together like animals, having lost all dignity and respect from others and for themselves.

All were separated for their various crimes; the more hardened, dangerous criminals were contained several more stories beneath the forgotten surface.

There was no sense of night or day. The darkness that eternally shadowed the place was as the blackest of nights without the hope of dawn.

Night forever, never the return of day.

Amidst this crowd of convicts, prostitutes, murderers, and every other criminal imaginable, sat a young man by the name of Jack Dawkins.

His head was bent, and his hands were rested calmly upon his exposed knees.

Eyes of cerulean lingered upon the stone floor of the dungeon, whereupon his bare feet rested.

Ten years he had been in this place; captured at merely the age of thirteen for the crime of pick pocketing.

His changed appearance was as you might expect of a criminal having been imprisoned for a decade.

The notorious hat had been long missing from his outfit, and the dark hair that was present beneath said hat, had grown over his eyes and was beginning to fall upon his shoulders.

The makings of a beard were forming on his face, though extremely unkempt.

He had grown taller, as one might expect, and of course, fully formed into a man. However he, having been underfed, was becoming quite thin, and, at that cost, there was hardly a muscle on his body.

Intellectually he had come a long way, as far as gaining more knowledge on the practice of thievery.

Striving for perfection, he had learned all he could from those whom had been willing to educate him.

He planned on escaping when finally the day should come in which he felt fully prepared to reemerge into the world.

That day, he felt certain, was soon at hand.

So there he sat for hours upon hours awaiting the moment in which a plan for escape would be discovered.

It's what he had trained his mind for, its what he had worked so hard to gain.

"Jack?" stated an elderly man with a rough voice.

The lad raised his head in silent answer, and waited to hear the purpose of the man whom had addressed him.

"Ye gettin out of 'ere, boy?"

Jack merely nodded and then turned his head away, returning his attention to the ground beneath him.

"Ye be careful, ye 'ere me, lad? I've come to admirin ye greatly."

At this last statement, Jack again looked over at the old man and opened his mouth to speak. " And I you, Givvins."

Givvins smiled, "It's been my pleasure to 'ave 'ad the 'onor of bein' locked up 'ere wit' ye."

Jack did not reply but merely nodded his head to the man in both respect and as a sign of the mutual friendship they had formed.

Benjamin Givvins had been one of the few tutors that Jack had considered worth modeling himself after.

"I'm sure gonna miss ye, Jackie boy."

Jack again nodded, "And I you, Givvins."

Ben Givvins then quickly turned his face away so as not to allow Jack Dawkins the sight of a hardened criminal shedding a tear.

Jack, however, guessed the man's reasons for abruptly turning away and snickered silently to himself.

He had never been the emotional sort, and as a result, had never shed a single tear. Well, not since the loss of his entire family sixteen long years ago.

Leaning his head against the wall behind him, he exhaled slowly and closed his eyes to keep out the memories, which had so long remained buried within his mind.

All time seemed lost, along with his hazy recollections of the outside world. He could hardly remember the feel of the sun upon his skin, or the feel of the wind through his hair.

His entire youth had been spent in this musky environment; spent but not wasted, in his mind at least.

He began to reminisce over all he had been taught.

Trained and instructed in the art of thievery by the nations best criminals; his mind had been molded by the hands of experts.

'_And now I am ready,'_ he thought to himself with pleasure, _'finally ready.'_

"'Ey, Dawkins!"

Jack's head shot up at the voice responsible for suddenly breaking him out of his reverie.

"Oh." Jack scowled and lowered his head, "'Tis only you, Banks."

The overweight, rough-bearded, middle-aged man lunged forward and grabbed the collar of Jack Dawkins' coat.

"'Tis only me? 'TIS ONLY ME!?"

Jack grimaced as the horrific breath of the man hit him in the face, briefly clouding his senses.

"What are ye wincin fer?" demanded the man upon seeing the change that had come over Jack's features. "I 'aven't 'it ye…yet."

He chuckled and lifted Jack to his feet, staring into the younger lad's eyes with malice and loathing.

"Banks," Jack began with a calm countenance, "let's not be fightin' on our last days together."

The man, Banks, looked down at Jack incredulously. "What ye mean, _our last days togethe'?"_

Jack smiled smugly and looked towards the cell door, confidence within his gaze.

He jumped, however, at the sudden howl of laughter that emerged from Banks' lips.

"What you laughin' fer?" Jack asked in pretend bewilderment. "I don't recall 'avin' said nothin' that deserves bein' laughed at."

The bloke continued to laugh and Jack still wore the slightest smile upon his face as he felt the man's grip on him loosen.

"The crook thinks 'e's bloody gettin' outta 'ere!" Banks exclaimed through peals of outward amusement. "Our last days togethe'! Ha!"

Unbeknownst to Banks, however, was the fact that he had completely released his hold on Jack, who now stood staring up at him with arms crossed and an impatient glare.

Banks, after finally feeling nothing within his grasp, turned to see Jack raising a fist and saying, "Right, now that you've 'ad ye'r laugh, let's shut ye up fer good."

Then, after a resounding collision of fist to jaw, Banks stumbled back in a daze.

Jack tauntingly motioned for him to approach, and, as the man lunged forward in a rage, Jack lifted a knee into his stomach and then jerked him upright to deliver another blow to the jaw.

Shortly after this final hit, Banks fell to the stone below, his eyes closed in weariness.

Jack ran a bloody hand through his hair and then knelt beside Banks' form, patting his balding head. "Better take it easy old feller."

Jack stood and leaned against the wall, shoving his hands into his pockets as Givvins and the other surrounding prisoners emerged from their momentary stupor and looked at him, some disapprovingly and others admiringly.

"Poor 'ole Banks," one man said taking compassion on the fallen man.

"I dare say he had it comin' for some time," another stated flatly.

Jack listened to several more such comments before sliding down and resuming his former position of sitting against the wall and lowering his head.

It wasn't until several hours later that, after waking from the sleep he had fallen into, a sudden idea for escape came across his mind.

A slight smile broke through his somber features, but which soon faded as he gazed around the cell at the darkness and hollow loneliness it possessed.

He shivered, not merely from the cold but from the sheer ominous nature it seemed to hold.

There were so many hours in which he spent simply pondering; pondering over his past, present, and future.

Countless thoughts over who he once was, who he had become, and the man he had yet to be, constantly plagued his mind, sometimes with laughter, and others with a mournful bitterness.

The agony he should've felt, even wished to feel, was never present upon his encounters with the worst memories of his life.

His heart had long been hardened, frozen with all the misfortunes he had endured during his younger years.

He had become as the prison he sat within; hollow, omniscient, and completely filled with a constant darkness.

This place, in which he had been sent, was the only place in the world he deserved to be.

The only place anyone deserved to be is that place which outwardly reflects what one contains within.

Jack's lips parted into a crooked smile as he slowly shook his head. "But when are we ever where we really belong?" he mused.

His persona had become comparable with that of a horrific prison; as dark and dank as the very cell in which he sat.

"Dark and dank," he muttered silently to himself, "thou art dark and dank, Artful Dawkins."


	2. A Matter of Choice

**Voleur de Mon Coeur**

Chapter II

A Matter Of Choice

_A thief came down the walk_

_I do not know just why_

_We stopped to have a talk_

_Between us, him and I_

_He told me of his ploys_

_Adventures great and bold_

_He talked of Thiefdom's joys_

_From the days of old_

_We then said our goodbyes_

_He seemed polite and kind_

_But what escaped my eyes_

_Was that he robbed me blind! _

_Hymn of the Thief_

_By – Makaroto_

His eyes flew open, the nightmares vanishing as the sight of darkness greeted him with a sinister welcome.

Unknown was the hour, undated the day.

Jack Dawkins stretched and turned his head to see the sleeping form of Benjamin Givvins.

"_Take care of yourself old man," I shall say when the time comes._ Jack mentally promised himself.

Then, upon looking up to the stone ahead of him, he saw the waking form of Mr. Banks, whom looked around with an uncomprehending expression on his features.

"Where am, I?"

"In hell," came Jack Dawkins' immediate reply.

Banks swiftly turned in the direction of the sudden voice, and, upon seeing the speaker, quickly got to his feet and lunged toward Jack, grabbing him by the collar of his coat.

"Must we go through this every day?" Jack drawled as he was jerked to his feet and forced to again smell the horrid breath of Mr. Chester Banks.

Rolling his eyes, Jack looked up into the man's crude face and awaited the raised fist that was bound to come next.

Sure enough, directly after the thought had passed through his mind, Jack saw Banks clench his fist and raise it.

However, being as Jack Dawkins' former name had been the Artful Dodger (and rightfully so), he dodged the blow easily and then proceeded to deliver a punch into the nose of Chester Banks.

Chester stumbled back, holding the bleeding nose and crying out in a howl of pain.

Jack then awaited the man's surge of rage, and the fall to the floor.

The rage came, but the fall did not.

Chester ran towards him, and Jack's smirk was replaced with a sudden look of alarm as he felt a strong pair of hands grab his own in order to keep him from delivering a final blow. It was the man who had, just yesterday, felt sympathy for Banks.

"Let me go, Danny." demanded Jack.

"No," came Danny's reply, "let's let you take the fall for once, Jack Dawkins."

Jack exhaled slowly, and, as Banks' punch was coming towards him, he suddenly ducked and allowed the blow to fall upon Daniel Douglas.

Danny instantly fell to the ground and stared up at both Jack and Chester with a confused and agonized expression.

Jack Dawkins turned and released a punch against Banks' face, then stuck both hands in his trouser pockets as he, too, fell to the floor with a thud.

Ben Givvins chuckled slightly and eyed Jack approvingly. "My boy, I haven't seen such skill among many. You 'ave a talent, Jackie."

Ben shook his head, "Truly a born criminal."

Jack smiled slightly and then leaned his head against the wall, "Is man so pre-destined?"

Givvins' brows furrowed slightly at this statement and he bent his head in question. "Does being a born criminal not please you, lad?"

Jack picked a piece of straw from beneath his feet and slowly turned it between his fingers. "It ain't that, Givvins."

"Oh? Then what is it?"

Jack sighed, and, throwing the fragment of straw to the floor, looked up into the face of Benjamin Givvins. "Are we destined to become what we were born to be?"

Givvins pondered these words before motioning for Jack to come and sit beside him.

Jack reluctantly gave up his position against the wall and took the spot offered.

Givvins lay an aged hand upon his shoulder, "Do you regret you're life of crime, Jack?"

Jack turned and looked up into the eyes of the man, "I like to think of it as a choice I made, not as a pre-planned destiny."

Givvins' face broke into a grin and he slapped Jack proudly and firmly on the back. "Truly, you are my best and finest pupil."

Jack laughed heartily and shook his head, "How could I ever regret this?" He swept his hand across the interior of the cell, "A life of crime is the only life for me."

Ben Givvins raised a hand to his heart, "Good because ye 'ad me worryin' there for a moment or two."

Jack shook his head, "Never worry yerself over me, my friend, for the day I say I'm regrettin' who I've turned to bein', it'll be a lie."

Givvins nodded, "I know, Jackie boy. Don't know 'ow I ever could've doubted ye."

"Would the two of you hush up?" hollered one of the prison guards. "It's bad enough with all the 'round here without you two blabbering on about yourselves."

Jack rose to his feet and walked over to the prison guard, grinning widely and holding his head proudly. "Maybe if you was as proud of what you is, then you'd be carryin' on 'bout yerself also."

The officer glared at Jack with pure hatred etched in every one of his features. "There ain't nothin' for you to be proud of, lad."

Jack smiled a crooked smile, "Sure there ain't." Then he turned and began to walk away. "This life," he said with a chuckle, "is glorious."

The officer shook his head, before briskly turning and walking away.

Jack saluted to the retreating figure before putting his hand in one of his pockets and taking out the officer's wallet.

"Feels great to be back in business."

Givvins clapped proudly, "Well done, lad."

Jack bowed gracefully before turning and repositioning himself against the wall, the wallet safely back within his own pocket.

However, as the hours pressed on and all others around him were deep in slumber, the words of both the officer and Givvins plagued his mind.

"_Do you regret you're life of crime, Jack?"_

"_There ain't nothin' for you to be proud of, lad."_


	3. An Act Of Mercy

**Voleur de Mon Coeur**

Chapter III

An Act of Mercy

_The paths of the god and the thief_

_Are worn as one into the earth_

_And every falling of a leaf_

_To the forest floor gives new birth_

_Whatever we do in our life_

_The consequences shape the world_

_When all our efforts come to strife_

_All our hopes seem to have been hurled_

_In the darkness of cloudy night_

_Nobody sees us as we weep_

_And feeling winter's chilling bite_

_The once-strong will has gone to sleep_

_When everybody seems a foe_

_And every step seems more forlorn_

_We must seek out the way to go_

_With every step our paths are worn_

_Our destiny is ours to make_

_The great cup of life has been poured_

_Richness of soul is there to take_

_In taking the thief is made lord_

_We can help ourselves to this wealth_

_And leave plenty behind beside_

_From life's cup we drink to our health_

_And so we can cast care aside_

_The future is a tangled wood_

_Yet still for its secrets we yearn_

_We all leave our tracks in the mud_

_So others will know where to turn_

_The paths of the god and the thief_

_Are worn as one into the earth_

_And every falling of a leaf_

_To the forest floor gives new birth_

_The Cynical Smile_

_By-Runner_

Restlessness consumed him; his hands ached for the thrill of his art.

He inwardly punished himself for allowing his restrained desires to take over and cause him to do something as stupid as stealing an officer's wallet.

Jack Dawkins kicked the wall beside him and then slammed his fist against it.

"Stupid," he muttered to himself, "stupid, stupid, stupid."

Benjamin eyed the lad in slight alarm and with a questioning gaze.

Jack, upon seeing the expression on the older man's face, shook his head, "that was a stupid thing for me to do, Givvins, taking that man's wallet."

Acknowledgement flickered over Ben Givvins' face. "Well, Jackie, just what are ye plannin' to do 'bout it?"

Jack took the wallet from within his pocket and eyed it thoughtfully. "What will they do if they find it on me?"

Givvins shrugged, "no tellin'. It depends on 'ow angry they ares with ye."

Jack sighed and then returned the wallet to his pocket. "Probably gonna search every cell on this level."

Givvins nodded, "probably."

Jack kicked the wall again and then sat against it dejectedly. "There ain't nowhere to hide it neither."

"Give it to that Banks feller."

Jack looked up at Ben, an unreadable expression on his face. "What?'

"The man Banks, put it into one of 'is pockets." Givvins laughed heartily, "I'm sure puttin' somethin' into a pocket is just as easy as takin' somethin' out."

Jack shook his head, "no, Givvins."

Givvins furrowed his brows, "why? It's a good solution. 'Ave ye gathered morals all a sudden?"

"No. It's just that I'm not gonna be lettin' no one else take the credit for the work I've done." Jack answered with firm resolve in his voice.

Givvins smiled, "you're one in a million, Jackie."

Jack returned his smile, "I know it."

He leaned his head against the wall behind him, his mind frantically searching for a way out of his situation.

Letting Chester Banks take the fall had been extremely tempting, but his pride had overcome that alternative.

Jack slipped his hand into his pocket and grasped the source of his dilemma. He could feel the weight increasing as the feeling of helplessness began to take him over.

Did pride actually stand above his very life? Should he just let Banks shoulder the blame? Somewhere, somewhere deep within his blackened soul, was buried honor; an honor that fervently whispered to his heart.

Looking over at Banks' sleeping form, Jack felt a sudden surge of a feeling he could neither identify nor welcome.

If Banks were to die at his hands, he knew he would forever regret it.

'_I am a thief,'_ he thought, _'not a murderer.'_

Quietly pushing away the pitiful emotion that had filled him, he removed the wallet from his pocket and, once again, looked down upon it, pondering what he should do with it.

"Jack Dawkins," he whispered to himself, "you are a fool."

He returned the wallet to his pocket, and then closed his weary eyes to fall into the comforting arms of sleep.

After several long hours had passed, Jack awoke with a sudden start out of a nightmare. The visions were fresh on his mind, and a fear had taken his body. His mind recalled everything that had taken place…

He had seen, all too clearly, the guards discovering the wallet on him, and then dragging him away to another chamber where he was tortured mercilessly.

The dream had begun to end as a door beneath his feet dropped and the noose tightened around his neck, ending it all.

Now, upon seeing that it had only been a nightmare, Jack's breathing began to ease, though the sickened feeling upon his heart remained.

He ran his hands through his hair, allowing his fingers to linger within the strands.

He shook his head in attempt to rid the horrific images from his mind and the fear from his body. However, it was a useless act.

"Lad."

Jack's head shot up as he drew his hands from his hair, and he looked over at the source of the voice, sending his heart-rate into a rapid frenzy; it was the owner of the wallet he had stolen.

'_It's over,'_ his mind told him, _'this is it.'_

"Lad," repeated the officer, "come here."

Jack weakly got to his feet and walked towards the prison guard, his face pale and his breathing shallow.

He looked around anxiously and his heart sank as he saw that the other occupants were asleep. There wouldn't be one person to see him go; no one to get a last glimpse of The Artful Dodger.

Jack stopped and looked into the eyes of the officer, his entire body trembling. He could hear the cold voice of death's whisper within his mind, and it made his skin crawl as it sent a chill down his spine. His darkened soul welcomed it with an eerie chuckle.

The officer opened his mouth to speak, "my name is William Flannigan."

Jack's fear was momentarily replaced with confusion and his eyebrows furrowed in question.

William smiled slightly at the younger man's apparent bewilderment. "I know it was you, Mr. Dawkins."

The fear came rushing back to Jack, and he looked down at his feet in defeat, as he anxiously awaited the threats and curses that were sure to follow.

William, upon seeing the alarm on Jack's face, reached through the bars and placed a firm hand on the lad's shoulder.

Jack looked up quickly to meet the softened eyes of the officer.

"I'll bet you haven't been shown a bit of kindness for many years."

Jack's eyes widened in astonishment at these words, and his mind was spinning with confusion; this was not what he'd been expecting.

William removed his hand from Jack's shoulder, "I'm not going to turn you in, boy."

Jack's mouth parted slowly, and he searched for words in response to this.

Finally the only thing he could think to say was a barely audible, "Why?"

William smiled gently, "there are some of us who still hold onto the lost concept of justice."

"Lost concept?" Jack weakly asked. Justice seemed, not lost, but a thriving and active part of life; justice had thrown him into this cell. It forever haunted the streets, as it sneered down at the poor and desperate; justice bred poverty, it bred criminals.

William nodded, "It is a side of justice that has been forgotten; I call it mercy."

A strange feeling began to creep upon Jack as he heard the foreign word. _Mercy_, it was true, had been lost, or, rather, nonexistent.

"Mercy?" he muttered shakily.

"I'm probably saving your life, kid."

Jack desperately tried to force the confusing emotions away but they clung to him relentlessly.

"Why are you doing this for me?" he asked helplessly.

William sighed, "When I first discovered my wallet had gone missin' I knew at once who the thief was. I was firmly resolved to turn you in, but as I approached the Chief of Police, I faltered as the image of your hanging body filled my mind.

As much as I loathed you, I couldn't bear to be the one responsible for your execution. That stayed my tongue and my wrath."

He smiled and looked into Jack's tortured eyes, "and besides, I see somethin' in you that tells me you are not completely past redemption."

Jack shook his head at this statement, "you're wrong, Flannigan. If I ever get out of this hell cage and happen upon you in the street, I will not hesitate to pick you're pocket again."

William shook his head, "you are a foolish boy, Jack Dawkins, and I do not expect any different from you. Perhaps that redemption is buried too deeply within your soul." He sighed, "but you've got a whole life ahead of you for reforming, lad, I dare not take that away."

Jack eyed the man guardedly before closing his eyes. He felt so completely vulnerable at William Flannigan's words; it was a weakness he hated to feel.

Nothing could've prepared him for this, and he honestly felt that death was more bearable.

His emotions were terrifying him, and, compelled by something unseen, he reached into his pocket and took out the wallet.

He gazed down at it for several moments before slowly holding it out to the officer.

William shook his head firmly, "keep it, Dawkins."

"What?"

"I forgive you, lad."

Jack opened his mouth to speak, but William Flannigan turned and walked away.

"I don't want you're forgiveness!" Jack shouted, but to no avail as William did not even acknowledge being spoken to.

Jack Dawkins began to quiver violently and he slowly withdrew his trembling hands from the bars.

He sank to his knees and once again looked down at the wallet. Gritting his teeth, he threw it onto the floor. "Damn you, curse." He whispered to its lifeless form.

The Artful's pride had been shattered; swept from him and replaced by all his buried emotions, which he was too terrified to name.

The hidden persona, whom had been shrouded for many years, was beginning to show its pitiful face.

Jack would've preferred death over this any day.

His mind was begging for its relief.

William Flannigan had done him no favor; He hadn't shown him any mercy.

What he had done was give him the worst thing anyone ever could; morality, weakness, vulnerability.

"Why?" whispered Jack with rage. Damn that man and his so-called lost concept of justice.

He exhaled slowly and began gradually bury the emotions once more, and imprison the long-forgotten silhouette of himself.

His breathing became slower, and his troubled heart began to slow its pace.

Faces he had not seen for many years rose anew within his mind. Their desperate voices were begging him to release a former heart, a former soul.

He felt nothing for them; they had faded from his heart long ago.

Four figures murdered many years before in front of his younger eyes.

He had cried for them, at the time, but all his tears were now forever spent. He had none left to give; had no sorrow left to feel.

'_Go away,'_ he told them, _'and leave my mind forever.'_

They disappeared slowly, and sleep began to overtake young Dawkins, as he closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall.

His body was exhausted due to his inner struggle, and it only took mere moments before he fell into a restful slumber.

However, anguish took his visage as his dreams tortured him all the more…

A soft glow, merry laughter, bright fields and smiles as brilliant as the sun flitted across his mind. A shining brilliance that was both innocent and untainted.

In the distance, however, were storm clouds. Their sinister and ominous chill awaiting the moment in which to destroy the unsuspecting light.

It foreshadowed with an eerie whisper of a consuming darkness from which there would be no reprieve.

Jack tossed and turned as the storm inside his images neared, and sweat broke across his face and chest as thunder could be heard within his mind.

The rain fell upon the scene of his dream, and sadness rang through the pouring tears of the light that was lost.

The scene changed as he now saw himself, a young boy, on his knees in the midst of the thunderstorm.

Torment filled his body as the dark smothered and took him viciously.

The memory of their lifeless eyes and the rage he felt towards their reaper, filled his heart, and the eyes of his once innocent self, widened in fear and absolute pain.

The tears that had then fallen from his young heart were as the rain falling from the sky.

His life had been stolen and replaced with that of a hardened thief, whom had forgotten what it was to feel.


	4. Into The Depths Of The Ocean

****

**Voleur de Mon Coeur **

Chapter IV

Into The Depths Of The Ocean

_The shattered water made a misty din._

Great waves looked over others coming in,

And thought of doing something to the shore

That water never did to land before.

The clouds were low and hairy in the skies,

Like locks blown forward in the gleam of eyes.

You could not tell, and yet it looked as if

The shore was lucky in being backed by cliff,

The cliff in being backed by continent;

It looked as if a night of dark intent

Was coming, and not only a night, an age.

Someone had better be prepared for rage.

There would be more than ocean-water broken

Before God's last Put out the light was spoken. 

_Once By The Ocean_

_By-Robert Frost_

"What's been on yer mind, Jackie? Yer've been distant lately."

Jack looked up at Givvins. "I have to get out of here." a touch of desperation possessed his voice. "I cannot take this confinement any longer."

"Why the suddn' restlessness?"

The previous night's haunting visions began to inhabit the tortured chambers of Jack's mind and he sighed. "My mind's beginnin' to turn on me."

Givvins nodded, "Aye. I've been through that."

"and…how did you overcome it?"

Givvins smiled slightly, "I had to confront it…eventually, although," he looked down, "We never truly overcome it, we only become numb; desensitized."

Jack shook his head, "but you see, I'm afraid if I face it, then i-it will take me over."

Givvins rose from the cot he had been lying upon and walked over to take a seat beside the troubled lad.

"Yer suddenly tortured, Jack. Why is that?"

Jack sighed and ran a grimy hand through his mangled strands. "The prison guard," he looked up at Givvins, anguish within his cerulean gaze, "the one I stole the wallet from. Well, h-he pardoned me."

Benjamin Givvins furrowed his brows, "he pardoned yer?"

Jack let his head rest on the wall behind him. "Yes," he sighed, "he did not turn me in."

"Why I wonder?"

Jack shook his head, "he thinks I has a chance to be redeemed."

Givvins suddenly broke into hearty laughter. "Redeemed! The Artful Dodger?! Redeemed! Ha! That _is _humorous."

Jack tried to find the will within him to laugh, but his internal turmoil prevented him from indulging in any such amusement.

"Come on, Dodge my boy,' Givvins said, his voice laced with a smile, "break off it."

"Everything was so much simpler when I was younger." Dodger pondered aloud.

Givvins nodded, "thing always are."

Jack closed his eyes. "I _feel, _Givvins," he sighed, "I _feel_ and I hate it!"

"Push it away." Jack heard Givvins whisper in a nearly inaudible voice; The sound of it resounded within the Artful's suffering mind. "Seal all wounds of the past, destroy all sense of the soul.'

Jack felt an excruciating pull upon his heart at these words. These words which ordered him to abandon all of his unwanted emotions. Oh! How he wished he could obey.

"I can't," he whispered.

"try."

Jack hesitantly ventured into the darkest corners of his being, into he shadows where lingered all the ghosts of his hidden persona. Caged and screaming for release they begged for Jack to free his former heart, his past soul, his ancient mind.

Suddenly the haunting faces from his childhood, swarmed through his memory. Their eyes, lifeless, their voices whispering in unison. They hissed his name, they pleaded and begged.

Jack began to breathe heavily and he quickly opened his eyes, gritting his teeth. "I CAN'T!" he shouted.

Standing, he looked down at Givvins. "I'm never going to be rid of these phantoms; they linger upon my every footfall, relentlessly following, unabashedly waiting."

Givvins stood, "one day you will find the strength to do as I have done, and fool these specters."

Jack nodded doubtfully, "perhaps."

Then he began to pace about the cell. "On a brighter note," he said, in attempt to change the current conversation, "I have an idea for escape."

"Oh?" responded Givvins, "And what might that be?"

Jack came and sat beside the older man, "prison riot."

Givvins raised a grayed brow as Jack continued. "I just don't know how to put it into action."

Ben Givvins shook his head, evident doubt upon his features. "It's impossible, Lad."

"We outnumber the guard ten to one." Jack sated firmly.

Givvins eyed him incredulously. "Prisoners 'ave no idea 'ow to work together."

"If they had a stab at freedom they would."

"Jack!" Givvins exclaimed. "Yer meanin' that we lie to 'em? There's no way everyone 'as a chance at escapin'!"

Jack sighed, "I'm sure there's a way."

"The guard 'as guns, Jackie, we may 'ave more numbers, but they've got the weapons."

"There's strength in numbers."

"Jack," stated Givvins, "we are criminals, not soldiers, everything is about self-gain."

Jack looked away in frustration, defeat edging upon his heart. "Do you have a better idea?"

"No," replied Givvins. "But I've tried to everything." He suddenly laughed, "what do yer think I've been doin' for the past 50 years?!"

Jack shook his head and sighed in despair. "Oh Givvins." he looked up at the man, "shall I ever get out of here?"

Givvins shrugged, "no tellin'"

Jack stood then resumed his pacing about the interior of the cell. His features portrayed that he was searching, but without hope of finding the answer.

He was growing more and more restless within each passing moment. He felt more confined than he had in the past 10 years of his imprisonment.

How long could he last? Before his mind drove itself insane?

The hours dragged on mercilessly, and Jack finally rested his head upon the cold stone of the cellar floor in exhaustion but not defeat.

He continued to search his thoughts for the key that would unlock the door to his freedom; there had to be a way.

He fell asleep, still lost within his quest, and his dreams consisted of various trial and error attempts for escape.

Changing, however, his visions began to morph into images of darkness.

He saw a shadow moving through the blackest of nights, then saw this form open a door, which exposed the brilliance of the fairest of stones. Its shimmer was more glorious than the very moon within the midnight sky.

Then, upon reaching out a hand, the figure swiped the gem and turned to reveal the face of he, Jack Dawkins. There was a sinister glint within his eyes, as he took a step forward.

Suddenly, he halted, as he beheld an approaching aura of light. Horror overtook him and, after unsheathing a dagger, he reached up and thrust the blade into his own heart; the gem fell to the concrete beneath his swaying feet.

It was no longer of pure crystal, but had transformed into the darkest onyx, with no beauty of any sort. Its blackened glare faced his fallen form, which writhed and twisted in agony.

Through the haze of the Artful's vision, the strange light neared, and before all was dark, he found himself staring into the depths of the ocean.

Waking, Jack quickly rose, his eyes filled with frustration. Sweat had broken across his features and his heart had not yet slowed.

What could such a dream have meant? Why had his heart warmed to that nearing light, and those orbs of the sea?

The visions of those orbs, were what stuck most within his mind; He saw all the qualities of the ocean within them.

He stood and walked over to the cellar door, and, gripping the bars he smiled at the feel of the cold steel upon his hands.

It was in these moments, while all others slumbered, that he felt most vulnerable.

Most weakness.

**_(Happy New Years Everyone!!!)_**


	5. The Hue of Morning’s Pale Sky

Voleur de Mon Coeur

**Voleur de Mon Coeur**

Chapter V

The Hue of Morning's Pale Sky

_The grey begins to fade,_

_As colour creeps from leaf to limb._

_The light is slowly seeping up,_

_From beneath the earth's curved rim._

_The sky blue strengthens slowly,_

_Glazed with hues of orange and red._

_Slowly as the earth revolves,_

_The sun lifts up it's head._

_Colours shimmer in the light_

_And shapes begin to unveil._

_The trees and flowers separate,_

_With the dawn light rosy and pale._

_The sun climbs higher in the sky._

_It's light shimmering and warm._

_All things now are clearly seen._

_A new day has been born._

_By-Jacqui Thornton_

"Jack!" A voice called. "Jack Dawkins!"

The Artful's eyes opened at the sound and he weakly stood and narrowed his eyes to better focus upon the face calling to him from the other side of the prison bars.

"Come here lad", insisted the speaker.

Jack wearily made his way towards the figure and, as he beheld who was standing there, his heart jumped within his chest.

"Flannigan?" he whispered dryly, his voice still laced with sleep.

"Hello, boy," answered William. "Quickly, though, we have no time to lose."

Jack rubbed his tired eyes and tried to focus. "What are you speaking of?"

William glanced behind his shoulder then back at Jack, anxiety upon his features. "You are to be executed; sentenced to death this very night."

Jack's eyes widened and a cold horror filled him; he grasped the bars of the cell to keep from collapsing. His body began to tremble as he asked, "why?"

William lowered his head. "One of the prisoners here has told a fellow officer of the crime you had committed upon me. Stealing from a prison guard is a grave offense."

He again looked behind him and then looked at the quivering Jack. "I tried my best to persuade them to relieve your sentence but they paid no heed."

"W-who?" Jack whispered weakly, "Who turned me in?"

"I believe it was…" William searched for the name, "…Banks. Yes, Banks was the name."

Jack turned his head and looked down upon the sleeping form of Chester Banks. He felt rage fill his heart and an ultimate feeling of betrayal.

"I had no idea he hated me so much," he stated in disbelief. _'And to think' _he silently thought, _'I chose not to put the blame of my crime upon him.' _

"Lad," said William Flannigan, brining Jack out of his momentary stupor. "We must make haste, for I fear the time is soon."

"What do you mean?" Jack asked in bewilderment.

"You will have to strike me, lad. Take my place."

Jack could not believe what he had just heard. Was William actually going to set him free?

A feeling beyond his control overtook him and Jack looked at Flannigan with unwanted concern in his eyes. "What will happen to you because of this?"

William shook his head, "don't worry about me, Jack. I will tell them that I was merely doing my rounds about this level and as I was passing by your cell you reached through the bars and struck me, took my uniform and the key, and escpaped."

He paused and sighed, "It will be believable because it is exactly what you must do."

Jack shook his head. "I cannot accept this, my pride prevents me from using your help, much less, going by another's strategy for freedom."

"Would you rather die?"

Jack felt the horror return and he could once again feel death's dark hand reaching out to him, beckoning to his soul to follow.

"I-" Jack sighed in defeat. "I suppose I have no choice."

William nodded. "Right, well, hit me as hard as you can. Take out all of your frustration on me."

Jack gazed at the man who was offering him this chance to escape his confinement. "I will not say any thanks. Do not expect my gratitude."

Flannigan nodded, "I expect nothing from you, Dawkins."

Jack sighed and then, after a mere moment of hesitation, hit the complacent face of William Flannigan, sending him to the ground behind the cell door in a crumpled heap.

Jack knelt beside the fallen figure, took the keys that would set him free, and proceeded to unlock the cage of his confinement.

At the sound of the turning lock, Jack felt a glow of apprehension fill him and a joy that he had not known for many years.

He grinned then dragged the body of William into the cell. He stripped the man of his uniform, removed his own, then dressed himself in the officer's clothing.

He walked over to where Benjamin Givvins slumbered. "Goodbye old friend," he whispered. 'I shall truly miss you."

Jack suppressed the feeling that threatened to emerge and then quickly turned and left his prison.

He turned, locked the door, and then took the first step onto the path of his future.

He had not time to revel in this moment, however, because he knew that time was against him, and so, he hastily ventured through the dark and narrow passageways of the prison.

His heart was beating wildly within his chest and his eyes were wide and alert, waiting for the possible and foreboding moment of his discovery.

Prisoners all around him reached out through the hundreds of cells, moaning and begging, pleading and wailing.

Jack felt no pity for them; his thoughts were solely on himself and the escape on which he was embarking.

Every minute of his exposure seemed to last an eternity; the long path that led out of this prison was beginning to cause Jack to feel vulnerable.

What if it had all been a trick? A trap in payment for what he had done to Flannigan? Had the man been sincere in his forgiveness?

He felt reassured, however, as he recalled the sincere look on Flannigan's face, and the truth within his eyes.

No actor could ever imitate that visage. No mask in the world could ever portray it so perfectly.

No one could pull the wool over the eyes of Jack Dawkins.

He focused on these thoughts to help shake off the waves of the foolish anxieties that were washing over his heart.

The feeling of an overwhelming excitement began to brew within his soul as Jack began to sense the end drawing nearer, the end to his slavery, to his hell cage.

He felt the anticipation of surfacing from the depths of this darkness; He sensed the relief from his binding chains and shackles.

To behold light once more, after a seemingly eternity of night, was nearly unbearable.

The dawn, the sun, were on the brink, finally approaching, finally within his grasp.

Suddenly, Jack could hear voices nearing from ahead, and he instinctively dodged into the darker shades of the shadows.

He heard them speak his name and listened harder.

His heart jumped as he realized that they were on their way down to his cell to take him.

He froze momentarily as he thought of how close he had come to death. Then, almost instantly, he comprehended that he had not yet escaped from it.

Time was growing shorter; they would soon discover his absence.

After their voices had faded, Jack moved more hastily and focused only on escape.

There was no more time for mulling over his many thoughts and confusing emotions.

He nearly ran, stumbling a few times in the dark. He felt that death itself was at his heels, chasing him, its bitterness waiting to devour him.

Finally, he reached the upper chambers of the prison, having cleared several levels of cells.

There was a dim light ahead and a small portion of the gloom he had felt for so long was lifted, clearing his head a bit more.

The prisoners here were not as those where he had inhabited. These were far less hardened, seeming almost like mere slaves, rather than law offenders.

They did not cry out to him, only humbly sat within their cages, sullen and emotionless, lost within their own misery.

Jack shuddered as he ran past them. They were even worse off than he had been.

They had probably committed no wrongs; these were the innocent criminals.

Morally right, yet humanly wrong.

The Artful hurried through as fast as he could, not wanting to gaze into the faces of these who were so wronged, afraid of the emotions that threatened to follow.

Jack knew that the guard that had gone to his cell had already discovered him missing, and were now chasing him.

Any moment now, he would hear their shouts.

"Hey!"

Jack looked up as he nearly ran into one of the guards.

"Where are you headed in such a hurry?"

Jack recalled that he was still wearing Flannigan's uniform and breathed a sigh of relief at this man's obvious blindness to his true identity.

"A prisoner 'as escaped." Jack stated breathlessly.

The man looked as if he had nearly fallen for the lie, but then narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"I've been at this post all night and day, and I've see no prisoner run through here."

Jack felt a tug of impatience within him as he thought of the time he was wasting.

"I assure you, Sir, I know 'e's escaped. Three more of the guard have gone to check and are now returning in 'aste. My words are true."

This seemed to do the trick, and the man eased his stance. "Alright, then lets go inform the officials."

Jack looked behind him warily, aware that this heavyset man would slow him down considerably. "It would probably be best if you stayed 'ere at your post though, since the convict will probably be coming through 'ere, since 'e 'asn't already."

The man shook his head, "I've grown tired of standing here."

Jack glanced back gain impatiently, anxiety growing with every idle second. "Look, we've got to 'urry."

The man pondered and then smiled. "I have an idea. You take my post for me and I will tell the officials, that way its fair for the both of u-" Jack landed a heavy blow to the man's nose, sending him staggering back with widened eyes.

"Y-you're the convict?!"

Jack nodded with a grin before hitting the man in the jaw, kicking him in the chest, and then releasing the final uppercut to the chin, sending the man to the ground in a bloody mass.

Jack wrung his hand briefly to soothe the throbbing before stooping to grab the man's pistol and then continuing his run through the many chambers.

He highly doubted he would really use the weapon in his hand, due to the fact that he had never murdered anyone. However, if someone happened to threaten his only chance at freedom…well, there was a first time for everything.

He would be willing to do whatever it took.

It was not long before Jack began to hear the shouting, echoing in the distance behind him.

He breathed deeply as he prepared for what would, possibly, be the most challenging part of his mission.

Quickening his pace, Jack winced at the knots beginning to form within his sides, and at he screaming protest from his burning lungs.

The long corridors began to steadily brighten, and Jack persistently ventured toward the welcoming light.

He presently reached a door on which was written, _"the officials' floors, 40 ft. below city surface." _However, though Jack couldn't read what was written, he recognized the inscription _40ft_.

Jack smiled slightly, _'only 40 more feet to ascend.'_

He cautiously opened the small door and caught his breath as he peered inside the dimly lit room to see a handful of officers around a large oval table, playing at cards and drinking spirits.

There was a large hearth in one corner, and assortment of bunks in the other, and, directly across the room, another door.

Jack stepped inside the dimly lit room, hoping to stay inconspicuous, moving as silently as was possible to the opposite side.

He had nearly made it when a voice suddenly called out to him.

"Hey! Lad! I've never seen your face around here!"

Jack turned reluctantly. "I-I'm new."

The man looked him over before chuckling, "are you afraid of us, boy?"

He motioned to the seat beside him. "Come, sit with us. Have a drink or two."

Jack shook his head. "I can't, I have to go."

The man waved him off, and then turned back to the others. "Lads these days, something's gotten into them."

Jack turned and quickly opened the door. He was then faced with a long hall, with multiple doors along the length of it.

Sweat began to break across his features as he looked up at each door sign in confusion.

He did not know how to read or write and, so, he had no idea where any of the doors might lead.

He took a deep breath and tried the first one; it was locked.

Jack then proceeded to try each one until he finally found one that opened. It led to a staircase and Jack smiled. "As long as I keep heading upward, I should be going in the right direction."

He ascended and was then faced with two more doors, one that had a fancy text upon its face, and the other none.

Jack entered the one with no text and encountered another flight of stairs.

Legs aching, and lungs bursting; he hastily ascended these as well, which took some time, as these were particularly lengthy.

He finally reached the top, out of breath and in pain, then stumbled through an archway and turned the corner to see another handful of guards walking towards him.

"What are you doing here?" they said briskly, "you belong in sector 3 with the lower officials."

Jack used every last ounce of energy that remained in his body and ran past them, not wanting to deal with any more interferences.

"Stop!" They hollered form behind him, "Hey!"

Jack ignored their shouts and headed fir the grand double doors ahead.

He thrusted them open and rushed through, wincing as he was faced with another, set of concrete stairs. However, as he looked up he could see light above them.

The light burned his eyes, searing them with its foreign essence.

Despite the ache that was now present within his head, Jack did not wait for his eyes to adjust to the unfamiliarity, but smiled and warily ascended the flight of stairs.

He tripped on one, falling to his hands and knees.

Jack panted heavily as he struggled to pull himself back to his feet, and then weakly walked up to the very last step.

He caught his breath, and then pushed aside a small cellar door, emerging from the bitter darkness.

He stepped onto the cobblestone street and then, opening his eyes, he looked up to see the rosy hue of early morning's pale sky.

**A/N: **_please submit many reviews. Lol. Encourage me!_


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